


Goodbye

by DottyDot



Series: How It Could Happen [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 16:57:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17450828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DottyDot/pseuds/DottyDot
Summary: "I can't" he said, his voice so low she was sure she hadn't heard it, but felt it. "I can't say it, not to you."





	Goodbye

Jon had come home to her. He stepped off his horse and walked into her arms as if that was the place he was meant to be. Whatever she had thought before she saw him and he saw her, whatever the Queen thought as she and Jon rode side by side through the gates of Winterfell, whatever anyone else thought watching the reunion between the eldest Starks. Sansa knew; she _knew_.

The Targaryen Queen was beautiful. Once Sansa would have cared. Once she would have noticed the woman's fine furs and silk scarf. Once she would have wanted to plan a wedding for the lovers, but she didn't now. A mad Queen in the South wanted her dead, a conquerer had come to Westoros, dragons were flying in Northern skies, the dead were coming, but Jon was home. Arya and Bran were home. She held Jon tighter than strictly necessary, and he held onto her longer than was quite appropriate. Did it matter to her? Not at all. He was home.

She stepped back, or he moved away, at some point he introduced the Queen, then he saw his other siblings, and more hugs, and then tears that were promptly blinked away. There were other reunions less pleasant. She again saw Tyrion, a husband she had not wanted, and the Hound, a protector she had feared. Arya and the Hound seemed grimly pleased to see each other, although Arya had claimed she left him for dead. Jorah was there, an opportunity for Lyanna Mormont to don an expression of even more obvious disgust and fury than her habitual scowl. If it weren't for the dead marching toward them, Sansa thought that Lady Mormont might have demanded justice, that Arya would have been tempted to scratch a name off her list, but what damage they had inflicted on each other had to be ignored. Better to desire the death of someone without gratification than risk the death of everyone. Fury was felt; nothing was done.

It fell on Sansa to instruct the placement of the army encampments, the supply of food for the dragons, and provide rooms for their guests. Every decision she had pondered since Jon's raven was now enacted, every person placed just so, every item on her lists checked off, one by one. She escorted guest after guest to room after room, guiding them through the frigid corridors, up and down the dark stairwells. She trudged through the snow to make sure her instructions were being followed as far as the distribution of additional blankets and food among the men, and then back into the keep to see to the meal preparations for the honored guests.

Some confusion arose between the Knights of the Vale and the Dothraki over where they were placing their horses, and she discovered that while Brienne was an ever faithful guard, she needed more intimidation for mediating these discussions. How was she to keep men who distrusted and loathed each other calm? It was clearly not only those within the keep who wished for blood. She had thousands and thousands of men pitching their tents in the snow who would be happy to watch the next man die. The Queen was somewhere trying to stay warm, and Jon was no doubt also there, trying to keep her happy.

Every step she took, the chain of Sansa's necklace jingled, beating against her chest: _dragons_ , _conquerer_ , _the dead_. She could hear Baelish's voice "everyone is your friend, everyone is your enemy." And then it was interrupted by that beat: _fire_ , _defeat_ , _death_. When the voices were too loud she would look for Arya, Bran, or Jon, not to talk, just seeing them was enough. She silenced the voices with muttered words: _live_ , _live_ , _live_. Everything she could do was done, and as much as she dreaded the coming dead, she felt the tenuous existence they all shared keenly. It could not last, they must merely make it last long enough.

Later, in Bran's room, Sansa forgot about the dragons when Bran spoke. The dead disappeared with Sam's confirmation. The only one who existed was Jon, and he would not speak. He listened, his solemn face growing more morose than usual, but he didn't speak, and then he disappeared. _Cousin_ , _cousin_ , _cousin_ , chanted in her head. She thought of his face during their arguments before he had left Winterfell, how hurt he had seemed that she didn't trust him implicitly, how touched he was by her affirmation. She thought of how she had missed him. She shook herself, making her necklace thump against her chest: _secret_ , _silence_ , _death_.

She wondered briefly if he was seeking comfort from the Targaryen Queen, his aunt, but she remembered how he had looked at her ever since his return and knew he wasn't. He had been so still, so silent, as Bran and Sam spoke that it frightened her more than any of the other threats, more than any of her nightmares. She and Arya agreed to go to him. They both knew where he would be. Standing before their father's statue in the crypt, questioning in death this man who had lied for him, being judged by the memory of the man who shaped him, stood the Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne.

Arya came to one side and Sansa to the other, their arms going around him. "You are still our family" Sansa reassured him. "We will always protect you" Arya promised, knowing what it could mean to do so. "We love you" they said as his arms came around them. He was still silent, as silent as the stone face he studied, but he heard them. Sansa could feel him take a few shuddering breaths, and he dropped a kiss on the top of Arya's head, another on Sansa's brow. Arya was burrowed half under his cloak now, his arm thrown around her. His other arm rested on Sansa's waist, and she raised her head from his shoulder to meet his eyes. There was pain, confusion, but light still there, a warmth that could lead to flames. _Cousin_ , _cousin_ , _cousin_. She blushed and tucked her head onto his shoulder. It was enough to know. She would not speak of if. They must keep his secret, at least for a few days more.

The next day Jon avoided her. He was in meetings or entertaining the Targaryen Queen. _Patience_ , _patience_ , _patience_ , she told herself, the chain across her breast beating out muffled words. There were fights in the encampment, a few Northmen had insulted several Dothraki. Jon went among the men, attempting to appease them, and Sansa happily remained inside. Sheep were taken to the dragons, ale was given to the men, councils were had, Sansa saw her siblings fleetingly, but that was best. The less they spoke the less chance they would say something that could be overheard. There was nothing to be said. They all knew the risks. The only option was silence. That night Sansa pulled her necklace from around her neck before bed, coiling the chain next to her hairbrush. It hissed as she let it slip through her fingers link by link, listing off fear after fear until she ran out of links. She never ran out of fears.

The following day Jon avoided her again. All day he had stayed busy and engaged with someone, anyone, other than her. He sparred with Arya and laughed with Gendry, ate with Tormund and Beric, planned with Davos and Tyrion, pushed Bran into the Godswood where they'd stayed for some hours. After the evening meal, he sat quietly before a fire and shared one last drink with Sam. He had been to see the Targaryen Queen several times throughout the day, and Sansa had allowed him to do as he wished, staying out of his path. She had accepted this, knew why it must be done, but now, the coldness of the dead had settled on Winterfell, she could feel it seeping through the walls, waiting to claim them. _Death_ , _death_ , _death_ it whispered in the voices of all those she had witnessed die. Sansa told herself it was a fancy, that she was strong within the walls of Winterfell, but her necklace made a muffled response. Sansa ignored the voices, and when Jon retired that night, she slipped into his room.

"Why didn't you say goodbye to me?" She asked him quietly.

"What are you talking about?" Jon hardly looked surprised, maybe he had been waiting for her to come to him. He did look weary, and he rubbed the scar over his eye and half sat on his table, waiting for her to explain herself. But how could she explain herself? All day memories had dipped and dived through the present, and a thought kept coming to her, this could be their last goodbye. An idea too horrible to dwell on spurred her mind to occupy itself with something less macabre, leading to a thought that simply wouldn't leave her alone: had they ever had a first goodbye?

Sansa was leaning against the door she had closed behind her. No voices in her head but her own. She ignored the whispers of the wind, and held her necklace still against her chest, clutching it into silence. She knew it was absurd to say anything now, in the middle of all the planning and preparation that must be done, but the army of the dead was drawing near, and a sense of panic had begun to invade her forced calm. They may very well all die tomorrow, and while she knew, she wanted to _know_. More than her own desire to know, she wanted Jon to know as well.

"You've never said that word to me."

"I'm sure I've--"

"You've never said goodbye to me. Never as a child, not when we left Winterfell, not since we've been together again. You've left for The Wall, you've gone into battle, you've left for the South, but you've never said goodbye."

Jon pushed off his table and partially turned away from her, rifling through a neat stack of papers until they were strewn across his table in a haphazard way. He continued moving his papers this way or that, neglecting to look at them, steadily undoing Davos' hardwork. Jon cleared his throat. "I waved at you when I left for Dragonstone. You waved at me."

"You didn't speak to me. You never said it, or _anything_." Sansa persisted, knowing that it meant something, possibly everything.

"What?"

Sansa cheeks were a little pinker, her pulse a little faster, and she walked a little closer to Jon. "Goodbye. You've never said that to me."

"Sansa, I'm tired, we'll be fighting white walkers any day now, probably tomorrow. We have Dothraki and dragons in the North, our bannerman hate me at the moment, we have a Targaryen in Winterfell, we just found out that we're cousins..." his voice died away as he finally looked at her again, all the papers on his table thoroughly disorganized.

There was pain in his eyes, and a look on his face it took a moment for her to recognize. She came even closer, and although her necklace chanted _stop_ , _stop_ , _stop_ , from under her hand, she paid it no attention. He didn't want to say it, but she studied his weary, marred face, and found longing. There was fear there too, not fear of what was to come, fear that some things might never be. She thought there was also the very smallest amount of hope hidden away with the rest of his secrets. He spoke with a quiet pleading, as if he could not bear what he was thinking, and wanted her permission to not say it. "What words we've spoken or left unspoken don't matter. They won't matter after tomorrow."

Sansa was within arm's reach now. _He means he doesn't care to live. He means he will die again tomorrow, and this time, he won't come back._ She had wondered if she was selfish, being a silly girl again, but his words, his eyes, there was only one assurance that he needed, only one thing that he wanted, but Jon would never ask for it. "You're right. Not important at all. So, since you will surely run through the gates tomorrow, or try to climb on a dragon, or jump from our walls, or do something equally stupid, go ahead and say it. Say goodbye to me, Jon."

He replied immediately. "No."

"Why not?" She was less agitated than she had been before, every refusal on his part made her more secure, that much happier.

"You've never said it to me either." He was almost sulky now which she wanted to laugh at, but stopped herself. "I have not." She smiled.

"Why are we talking about this now?"

"I just want you to say the words, Jon."

"I won't say them. _You_ say them."

"Don't be a child. Just say it." She waited, but Jon had dedicated his eyes to examining the floor, so she prompted, "Jon, all you have to say is--"

She was crushed to his chest so tightly she lost her breath and couldn't speak. Her cheek was pressed against the thick leather of his jerkin, and she was sure it would leave an impression, but she held onto him.

"I can't" he said, his voice so low she was sure she hadn't heard it, but felt it. "I can't say it, not to you."

Sansa pressed her palm to his chest until he relaxed his hold, allowing her to look at him.

He would not meet her gaze. "Don't make me say it. You know why I can't."

Her cool hand moved from his chest to his scar, his eyes drifted closed, his head tilted toward her, and she lightly traced the faded mark from above his eyebrow down to where it ended, just below his eye. She kissed him gently there, her lips smooth and soft on the jagged edges. He sucked in a breath, opened his eyes, and looked at her as if one kiss could heal all his old wounds, one look could ease all the secrets, one word erase all his fears. It made her brave enough to ignore her own, "Jon, I cannot say that word to you either." Her necklace was silent, but Sansa heard her own voice sighing _love_ , _love_ , _love_. Jon heard it too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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